Heartsville 04 - Clique (Jayden Brooks)

Clique

Jayden Brooks

Adam Locke’s youthful looks aren’t the blessing everyone seems to think. At twenty-eight, he’s a successful photographer with his own studio and respected by his peers—but that doesn’t seem to matter to the men who catch his eye. Instead, he’s brushed aside like an underage twink with a daddy fetish.

When a hot, bearded stranger stops him from accidentally walking into traffic, Adam looks up and finds the man of his dreams. Unfortunately, his first meeting with Brandon ends with him being dismissed as a kid. Again. Adam can’t help his annoyance. He also can’t help staring (and drooling) whenever he spots Brandon walking through the neighborhood with a different dog.

He watches from afar, wondering about Brandon’s story—until the day he’s dared to take another chance. It’s just the push Adam needs, and finally, he catches Brandon’s interest. Now if only he could figure out the key to getting taciturn Brandon to open up and let Adam in. But Adam knows sometimes all it takes is a little patience for the last piece to click into place.

To the Heartsville crew—Piper Vaughn, Nico Jaye, J. H. Knight, and Cate Ashwood—thanks for letting me tag along for the incredible ride through the gayborhood.

To my heroes—my family, Piper, Crissy, and CC—there are no words big enough. I love you.

Welcome to the gayborhood! In the cozy town of Heartsville, the streets are lined with trees, the shops are full of friendly faces, and happily ever after is just around the corner. Come get to know the boys next door—naughty, nice, and everything in between.

One

I love my job. Seriously love it. Best job ever. I should tweet my job love right now; this calls for a hashtag.
The images I thumbed through as I made my way to my studio were pure fantasy material. I’m a self-employed photographer, which isn’t too shabby of a gig under normal circumstances. But after a few of my heavily stylized images from an impromptu gym shoot hit social media, my services were suddenly in high demand by the type of guys who, normally, wouldn’t spare me the time of day.

The next time I visited the gym, I found myself being cruised by the free-weight dudes. Dudes. Yep, plural. If I was texting or composing a post, this was where I’d drop an appropriately stunned-looking emoji. Trust me when I say that receiving this sort of attention was an unprecedented occurrence. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a bad-looking guy: five-nine, a lean build, sorta shaggy brown hair, amber eyes, with a strong jawline. I would go so far as to say I’m reasonably attractive… to a certain demographic. Guys sixteen to twenty-one think I’m the bee’s knees.

Unfortunately, guys my age tended to dismiss me without much hesitation. Why? Well, it wasn’t because I emitted an offensive odor, at least not that I’d been told. (I’m totally tempted to sniff my shirt now.) No, the bane of my existence was the fact that, at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, I had a hard time passing for an adult. It was disgusting. Yeah, sure, one day in the far distant future, I’ll be grateful. But until that time comes, I’d like to
come
with a certain level of frequency. And that wasn’t happening. My dating choices consisted of an endless buffet of twinks-a-plenty or guys bent on being called Daddy or Sir. No thanks. I wasn’t looking to be anyone’s Pup, or Boy, or whatever.

Which brings me back to the deliciousness packed on the memory card of my reliable Canon 5D Mark III. Dudes with acres of oiled skin, rippled muscles, bulging bulges with super bulges, and a veritable road-map of veins. Did I mention the bulges? I’m a healthy male, with a hearty sexual appetite, but this was the next level of epic. For a guy like me, and many others, I was looking at the ultimate feast of man meat.

That’s the only excuse I have for why, on a beautiful October afternoon walking down Heartsville’s Market Street, I would step off a curb without looking first.

The urgent “Watch it, kid!” penetrated my awareness a split second before someone yanked the fuck out of my hoodie, obviously intent on choking the life out of me. What the hell? I had no time to figure it out, as my entire focus altered to one prime directive: save the camera. I wanted to tug at my hoodie to ease the clothes-hanger strangle, but I didn't dare. I clutched my kit with a zeal previously reserved for mothers protecting their young.

As I tipped to the side, my body instinctively curled around the precious gear. I closed my eyes and braced for impact.
Shit, I hope I don’t lose any teeth.
Yeah, that’s the kind of stuff that goes through my mind. I spend a lot of my time admiring nice dental work.

I landed on the concrete in an inelegant heap with the camera safe in my hands. It took me a moment to piece together the hows and whys of my predicament. After a quick mental assessment of my body, noting a blooming pain in my elbow and hip, I turned my attention to the man standing over me. With three short words, he had set my teeth on edge.

The “kid” stung, as it usually did, but it’d be poor form to snarl at the guy who just saved my bacon, and possibly my life. Hey, the situation called for high drama, am I right? Besides, he was the kind of good-looking that made the images in my camera pale by comparison.

Sure, he was fully clothed. I noted and appreciated his style—casual chic—lots of great fitting layers, but it was his face and build that set him apart: sculpted jaw covered by a neatly trimmed beard, artfully tousled tawny waves, and wise blue eyes that did a poor job of hiding his impatience.

Since I’m a contrary bastard, I wasn’t surprised when a solid kick of attraction slammed into my gut.
Yep, this is familiar territory.

“Thanks, man. I can’t believe I did that.”

His eyebrow lifted. “Do you need a hand?” Then his gaze narrowed. “Or are you hurt?”

“Oh.” I was still sprawled on the ground while he stood over me. I shook my head, denying any injury. I felt my face flush with embarrassment. Nothing left to do but try to get off the ground with a sliver of dignity intact. I may be in decent shape, but my ninja skills are seriously impaired.

“I’m good.” I met his gaze. “Thanks for save.” I held out my hand and gave what I hoped passed for a charming smile. “I’m Adam Locke.”

Somewhat reluctantly, he accepted my handshake. “Brandon.”

Okay, standing and staring at him awkwardly was lame. It was time to scurry off and lick my wounds in private. I bent to pick up the keys I had dropped in my absentminded attempt to become roadkill. That was when I noticed the most electric blue eyes I had ever seen, peeking from behind Brandon’s leg.

Almost of its own accord, my hand reached for the camera I’d slung over my shoulder, thumbing the power, releasing the lens, and checking the light meter. Any aches I felt vanished in that second. Those eyes were stunning.

“Whoa, what do you think you’re doing?”

Huh? He needed an explanation? I mean, my camera was nearing my face—what else could I possibly be doing?

But again, I managed to bite my tongue and patiently explain “I’m taking a picture of your dog, her eyes. I’ll give you a copy.”

I raised the camera again, ready to get her set in frame, when a hand blocked my view. With a deep sigh, I glanced up at him. Okay, fine, he was hot and my own personal hero, but man, don’t interfere with my composition. “Yes?” I didn’t drag the syllable out, honest.

Brandon’s mouth flattened to a hard line. “I didn’t ask you to take a picture.”

Chuckling lightly, I said, “I’m not going to charge you. Consider it a thank you.” I glanced at the Weimaraner puppy who’d scooted behind Brandon, only a portion of the black velvet snout visible. “How old is she? She’s a she, right? What’s her name?” Without my say-so, my voice shifted to a higher register. “C’mere, sweetie, can I pet you?” I shared my I’m-harmless-you-can-trust-me smile that won over parents and kids alike.

He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed deeply. “She’s four months old. Yes, Lulu’s female. And thanks, but no thanks.” He stepped to the side and gave a gentle tug on the leash.

“Wait. Um, you’re just leaving?” Stupid question. “What I mean is, if now’s a bad time, I can take Lulu’s picture whenever works for you. Let me give you my number, I’ll work around your schedule.”

Listen to me—like my calendar wasn’t packed with commitments and a hellacious editing queue. For some inexplicable reason, I was reluctant to let him walk away with such a crappy first impression of me. I’m likable. Hell, I go out of my way to be likable, because that’s who I am. I’m a likable, nice guy. Are you convinced yet? Ugh.

But as Brandon edged another step further away while glancing around the area, I realized he wasn’t just trying to leave, he was trying to escape. The weight of my disappointment was near crushing.

This time, I was the one taking the step back—literally and figuratively.

I’m not a sensitive flower, so the hurt feelings at his rebuff didn't make a lick of sense. This irritated me to no end. With a clenched jaw, I stood at my full height, doing my best to convey the composure I usually sported without effort.

I determinedly met his gaze, wanting to exude sincerity. “I appreciate your timely intervention, Brandon.” I didn’t wait around for his response. I merely turned and took the scenic route to my studio. I was hoping the brisk walk would take my mind off Brandon. It wasn’t like I was lacking in the friends department. So really, it was his loss.

At least that’s what I told myself.

Two

I spent the next few weeks in a funk, and the Brandon Brushoff was only in part to blame. What made matters worse was how often I’d catch sight of him around town. And when he wasn’t around, my brain seemed particularly fond of conjuring thoughts of him up whether I liked it or not. In an effort to power through it, I’d taken treks along the river walk with only my camera for company, clicking away at anything that caught my eye.

Fall in Heartsville is a photographer’s wet dream: a riot of autumnal colors, morning frost glistening along the riverbanks, brisk days filled with an abundance of natural light, and brilliant hues dancing in the horizon at dusk.

But after my excursions, I sat at my iMac sorting through image after brooding image, becoming plagued by an unfamiliar level of discontent. I made half-hearted attempts at editing a few, but each action and filter applied merely magnified the sense of loneliness and isolation conveyed in the stark images. I needed to get out of my head for a bit, and a visit to Bookmarked was my best hope to accomplish it.

Bookmarked is a bookstore a few buildings over owned by my bestie, Mark Werner. Clever name, isn’t it? His place has a great vibe and is one of my favorite hideouts… I mean hangouts. Okay, fine. But my editing queue is a scary beast, and sometimes a guy needs to step away and breathe. If only I could squeeze more hours into a day.

Mark has been my bestie for as far back as I can remember. We met, we clicked, and that’s all she wrote. He got me, without explanation. He didn’t need decoder ring to decipher my mood when the snark took the wheel. Nah, he’s sorta the antidote to my bitchy, ranty side.

I watched with interest as Mark darted around the counter to assist an elderly customer. His cheerful smile and easy manner made him an engaging proprietor. He was a rock-solid friend who would call my ass out for being an antisocial workaholic, as can happen when a design project turns into a nightmare.

With the sale completed, he returned to the lounge area and sat on the ottoman in front of me. “So, what do you think?”

I admired the excited gleam in his eyes. It’d been absent in recent weeks. He’d been concerned with the store’s future success. Rightfully so, as the neighborhood bookstore was quickly becoming a thing of the past. But Mark’s plans were solid.